Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

I refill my glass and take another sip. I feel a calm I haven’t felt in years. I pick up her photo and hold it to my chest. I close my eyes. I often talk to her in my head. I used to speak out loud in case her spirit, her essence, could hear me, but the silence that followed was too much.

I miss you, Sarah.

That night – that New Year’s Eve – I thought you’d turned a corner. Even though your dad, my Ron, had died that August, even though our little Zoe was still out there in the world or worse (we never talked about the worse). But no. It was a show you put on just for me, for one night only.

I hold the picture to my heart as I top my glass up a third time, and lean back into the sofa. New Year’s Eve, 1999.

We still had your dad’s ashes on the mantelpiece, didn’t we? Couldn’t bear to see him leave us too. We wanted to know where he was at all times, not to be blown away in the wind. But that’s what he wanted, cremation. He didn’t want to rot away in the ground. What had he imagined happened to Zoe? He never did talk about it, did he?

You sat in the chair you always sat in, next to the window, but you could see the television. You’d taken up the cigarettes again, but I let you smoke in the house – it was the least I could do. The bottle of vodka was next to you on the little green table, alongside the ashtray and two packets of cigarettes.

‘Do you believe in heaven, Mum?’ you said.

Not this again, I’d thought. This time though, because it was New Year, I thought I’d humour you.

‘You know, perhaps I do. Maybe Dad is waiting for me.’

‘Maybe he knows where Zoe is,’ you said. ‘Maybe he’s even with Zoe.’

You weren’t looking at me; you were watching the telly. A smile slowly spread across your face. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? If they have each other? They’d be waiting for me. Dad pointing to his watch, frowning and swearing.’

‘Don’t forget me. I’ll be going first,’ I said.

I was going to add, That’s the natural order of things , but something stopped me just in time.

‘Those psychics,’ you said. ‘Some of them said Zoe’s still alive, but others believed she’s with the angels.’ You picked another cigarette from the packet and lit it. ‘Which one do you believe?’

You’d never asked me that before. Well, not for years at least, not since she first disappeared. And for years I thought Zoe was just waiting to be found. But the longer it took, the more my hope dimmed.

‘I think she’s out there somewhere. Waiting for us to find her.’

I couldn’t tell you the truth about what I thought.

You sat with your vodka, and it was only when you stubbed out your cigarette did you say, ‘Yes. I think you’re right. After tonight, I’m going to look for her.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Like David is?’

You never replied.

By the next morning I knew what you meant. When I found you on the bed, another bottle of vodka on your bedside cabinet and the empty pill bottles next to your lifeless hands. Your note was simple.

Mum, I’m so sorry. But this is the only way I can think of to find her. I’m sorry for leaving you. I hope you understand.

You were only thirty-seven years old. I will never get over what you did, Sarah. But I know why you did it. If I had the nerve, I would do it too. Perhaps if I drink enough of this sherry I’ll put an end to it all.

I can’t believe I’m still talking to you, and you’re not here.

I refill my glass, again.

He keeps ringing my mobile, but I’m ignoring it for now. I know what he’ll say, but he’ll just have to realise that it’s for the best. And when I see her face, it will all be worthwhile. If I have a chance to get back at her , then that’s fine with me. I dial the number on my mobile and it rings about ten times before she answers.

‘Hello?’

That can’t be her. She sounds different. Probably got other people in her house.

I hang up.

I should think of the right things to say first. I was stupid for even trying without having prepared something. I’ll think about it while I get me and the kid something to eat.

I let her come to the table, but she’s not even smiling. You’d have thought she’d be grateful for something to eat.

‘Do you want any sauce with that?’

She shakes her head.

‘Fair enough.’

She sits there for ages. I hate it when people watch me eat. She winces when I stab my sausage with the fork. I can’t help but laugh. She looks scared shitless.

‘Come on, kid. You must be starving. Eat some of your chips. Bought them special for you – and they weren’t cheap.’

She grabs her fork and picks up a chip. She turns it round, looking at it as though it might come alive and bite her hand off. She moves it slowly towards her mouth, which she opens as though she’s forcing herself to. She chews it and her throat gulps as she swallows, like in cartoons.

‘See – that’s better, isn’t it?’

She nods slowly.

We eat in silence for a few minutes.

She places her fork down – she’s only eaten about five chips.

‘When are you going to take me to my mum?’

‘Not long now, kid.’

I wish she wouldn’t ask me questions like this. It’s not in my nature to lie.

My eyes don’t want to open. I had it again. I haven’t had it for years. Those few moments when nothing was wrong in the world – when it was just me, and nothing bad had happened. Then it came rolling in one by one. Zoe, Ron, Sarah. Given to me, then taken away in a couple of seconds. At least I didn’t dream about them. When that happens it’s like I’ve actually been with them again, it makes waking up such a wrench.

My shoulders and neck are stiff from being asleep on the settee, and my mouth is so dry. The sherry. Three glasses and I was drunk. Three glasses and I thought I would die from alcohol poisoning. Amateur , Sarah would say. All I’ve had is an afternoon nap.

‘Maggie? Maggie? Why’s your back door locked? Are you there, Maggie?’

So that’s what woke me. Bloody Jim shouting through the letterbox.

‘For God’s sake, Jim, stop shouting your mouth off. I’m going to change my name if you keep blaring it out.’

‘Sorry, love.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Thought you might be dead or something.’

‘Charming.’ I say that, but it’s a fair comment: death is usually the reason why a person of our age wouldn’t come to the door.

I take a deep breath before getting up. God, my head. I unlock the door and dart my head outside. In the front garden of one of the posh houses opposite, Mrs Cooper is gardening again – are those scissors she’s doing her edges with? Mr Austin is buffing his old Citroën, even though he only drives it on a Sunday.

Jim walks in, rubbing his hands like he’s arrived from the Arctic.

‘I reckon we’re in for snow this evening,’ he says. ‘The clouds look full of it.’

‘It’s too warm for snow. Stop being so dramatic.’

I follow him through to the living room and he spots the bottle.

‘Bloody hell, Mags. Have you been on a bender?’

He laughs.

‘Yes, very funny. I just had a thimbleful.’ I sound like my mother.

‘But you don’t drink.’

‘Well… no. Not usually. I was just toasting Ron’s birthday.’

He takes off his cap. ‘Right you are.’

Typical. I knew he wouldn’t remember when Ron’s birthday is. I grab the bottle, take it into the kitchen and pour what’s left down the plughole.

‘I was in the newsagent’s this afternoon,’ he calls from the living room. Can he not wait until I’m back in there? Why does he have to shout so much?